Part 1:

I always assumed the young goth woman who visited my mother every Saturday was simply an unusual new friend.

After Mom died, I discovered their relationship had begun because of something much deeper.

And the more I learned, the more I realized my mother had spent years carrying a regret none of us had completely understood.

Raven waited until almost everyone had left the funeral before approaching me.

Throughout the service, I had tried not to watch her.

She remained near the back of the room in a long black coat, silver rings and piercings catching the light whenever she moved.

For months, I had seen her sitting at Mom’s kitchen table every Saturday as though she belonged there.

I had never understood why.

Now my mother was gone, and Raven was walking toward me with one hand tightly closed.

“Maeve.”

I turned.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

She nodded and slowly opened her palm.

A tiny brass key rested there.

I frowned.

“What’s this?”

“Your mother told me to give it to you after she died.”

My stomach tightened.

“What does it open?”

“She said you’d understand once you found it.”

I stared at her.

“Why didn’t Mom give it to me herself?”

Raven hesitated.

“Maybe because she thought you’d put it somewhere safe and avoid finding out what it was for.”

The comment stung.

“You don’t know me.”

“No,” Raven replied quietly. “But Doris did.”

For a moment, grief turned into irritation.

“Then why did my mother trust you with this?”

Raven’s expression softened.

“I didn’t know her better than you did.”

“Then why do you have the key?”

“Because I knew a part of her you didn’t.”

Before I could ask what she meant, my husband, Tom, appeared carrying my coat.

Raven stepped away.

“Don’t hide the key in a drawer.”

Then she left.

I remained standing there, the metal key pressed into my palm.

One question wouldn’t leave me.

What had my mother been hiding?

The first time I met Raven, she was sitting in my father’s old chair drinking tea from Mom’s best china.

I had walked into the kitchen carrying groceries and stopped immediately.

“Mom?”

My mother, Doris, looked up.

At seventy-three, she was still happiest in that little kitchen surrounded by books, tea, and the garden outside.

“There you are, Maeve.”

The woman beside her turned.

She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five.

Black clothes covered her from neck to boots.

Tattoos ran along both forearms, and several silver piercings reflected the afternoon light.

“This is Raven,” Mom said. “She’s a friend.”

Raven stood politely.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

But my attention kept returning to Dad’s chair.

Raven noticed.

“Am I sitting somewhere I shouldn’t?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. How exactly do you two know each other?”

“We met over coffee,” Mom answered.

“At the bookstore café,” Raven added. “She told me the novel I was reading was terrible.”

Mom smiled.

“It was terrible.”

I tried to laugh, but something bothered me.

“I thought we were spending the afternoon together.”

Mom’s smile faded.

“We can do that next Saturday.”

I stared at her.

“You’re asking me to leave?”

“We’re discussing something private.”

Raven immediately offered to go.

But Mom stopped her.

“No.”

That hurt more than it probably should have.

I grabbed my purse.

“Maeve,” Mom said gently. “I love you. But I don’t need you managing every part of my life.”

“Saturdays are usually ours.”

“I know.”

I glanced at Raven, then Mom.

“Fine. I’ll get out of your way.”

Before leaving, I noticed a small wooden box beside Raven’s elbow.

Mom quickly covered it with a dish towel.

That did absolutely nothing to reassure me.

“Fine,” I repeated.

Mom sighed.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That word you say when nothing is actually fine.”

I left before anger made me say something I would regret.

That evening, I complained to Tom.

“She was there again.”

“Raven?”

“Two Saturdays in a row.”

Tom looked at me carefully.

“Did your mother seem upset?”

“No. That’s almost what bothers me.”

“Why?”

“Because she looked completely comfortable with her. Happy, even. And I still don’t know who Raven really is.”

Tom waited.

“She’s twenty-something,” I continued. “Mom barely knows her, and suddenly they’re having private conversations every weekend.”

“Do you think Raven wants money?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has Doris given you any reason to believe she’s being manipulated?”

“No.”

Tom leaned closer.

“Then what’s really bothering you?”

I stared into my tea.

Finally, I admitted it.

“I feel excluded.”

“Because you’re worried?”

“Because I’m jealous.”

Tom reached across the table and touched my hand.

“Then stop guessing. Pay attention.”

So I did.

Raven kept returning.

Soon Saturdays clearly belonged to them.

One afternoon, I arrived early and saw birthday cards scattered across Mom’s kitchen table.

The moment she noticed me, she quickly gathered them into a wooden box.

“What are those?”

“Old things.”

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